Off in the distance, the black sky met the black sea. They met at the point farthest from here, a sort of secretive, clandestine lovers' rendezvous. But tonight, there was no indication where the horizon may be, or even if there still was a horizon. Whether the black sky refused to meet the raging ocean, or whether the ocean was enraged by the sky's absence was moot. This was not going to be a common lovers' spat. The relationship of the sea-sky horizon was beyond quarrel.
On Point Styx, a foghorn bemoaned its lonely existence with a subtle lament, harmonizing with the sea's counterpoint to chant a foreboding dirge. The sky, hurling an angry thunderstorm at the sea, had knocked out the power only moments ago. With no natural light, and only occasional punctuations of crisp exclamations of lightning, the night was a warp on the human continuum.
The knock at the door had sounded immediately after one nearby thunderclap. The tapping of the brass knocker had been more startling than the detonation of the thunder, if only because it was so unexpected.
Just as I opened the door, a streak of lightning lit the sky behind a pair of indiscernible silhouettes. The brilliance of the electric bolt overwhelmed the feeble illumination of the candle stub I held in my hand. I could feel the mist of the Atlantic upon my face in the open doorway. I stood there, waiting for my eyes to dilate after their sudden contraction from the flash.
"Angela, for Christsake, get out of the doorway and let us in!"
I recognized Sandy's voice, and was never so glad to hear it. The relentless reproof of the storm would be less punishing with another human in the cottage, and my Jorge was not to be back until Friday.
Jorge and I were renting this cottage for the summer. It was a delightful spot, right on the beach on the long arm of Cape Cod. Jorge's boss owned the property. Having recently become a widower, Charles was still adjusting. His deceased wife had been buried at sea, and he had no heart to use the beach house this season. He let Jorge and I use it for well below market price.
The only downside to the arrangement was that Jorge was only able to enjoy it on weekends. He arrived after work on Fridays, and left very early on Monday morning. It was nearly one hundred miles to work in the north end of Boston, so he stayed at our townhouse in the city the other four nights of the week.
Sandy was a neighbor. The cottage immediately adjacent to ours was strictly a weekly rental. The cottage after that was Sandy's.
"Angela!"
I stepped aside. I was so thankful to have company in the obscurity of the darkness.
Sandy and her male companion stepped in. The candle flame flickered and died...the lone source of light gone. Just as I closed the door against the elements, another crack of lightning lit up the night; for nearly two seconds it was as though it was daylight. The white foam of the Atlantic could be seen eating at the sand. The beach was giving in to Triton's excesses.
Sandy was the sort of woman that every man dreams about as having for a neighbor. Her body was the main attraction whenever she was on the beach. Her long raven hair flowed about her shoulders, back, and breasts. Her deep dark eyes always danced with a sort of wickedness, seemingly just short of evil.
She had lovely long legs, and when she walked, it was always as if she had on high heels, even when barefoot. Her legs were topped with a tight little rump that seemed to beckon. I've never before been aroused by another woman, but Sandy seemed able to provoke thoughts of lust no matter who beheld her. If I could feel fire well up in me, I can only imagine what she did to a man.
Sandy was an annual attraction here. Certainly, to look at her, one would guess that she was nineteen, twenty at most. But, it seems, listening to gossip, that she has been here for generations! Her sun bathing is legend.
